


Onboarding

by IneffableAlien



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Eliasfucker hours, Other, Sexual Harassment, The Magnus Institute (The Magnus Archives), horny hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:34:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableAlien/pseuds/IneffableAlien
Summary: A highly unprofessional meet-cute between you, a new hire at the Magnus Institute, and the man himself.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 88





	Onboarding

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, this was supposed to be a joke. [Based on my stupid Tweets](https://twitter.com/siliconealien/status/1309198522605015045?s=20). But I might have actually made myself not-joke horny my bad
> 
> I probably shouldn't even be posting this to my main pseud but lol ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

“Looks like lunch is here, if you ordered,” says the trainer with an artificial grin. “I want everyone back here by 1:45.”

You practically run out of the room with its sickly yellow overhead lighting, thanking whatever higher power might watch over this place that you made it this far without falling asleep at your table out of boredom. Considering your usual rotten luck then, it really shouldn’t surprise you when you whip around the corner and crash straight into the Head of the Magnus Institute.

The barest ghost of stubble meets your face, and you fling yourself back as you realize in dawning horror that had you tripped another step your lips almost certainly would have grazed his skin. “Oh, god,” you say, “I’m so sorry!”

Mr. Bouchard’s smile curves gently, and his stare is so intense that for a moment you forget where you are. “That’s perfectly all right,” he begins to assure you.

The reaction to his voice is immediate and uncontrolled. You never would have anticipated such a silken, dusky drawl out of him. A dull ache makes itself known between your thighs.

He looks endearingly sheepish. “Although,” he continues, “I fear I should be the one apologizing to you, having made a sloppy mess of you.”

“Wh-what?” you stutter. _Is it that obvious?_

Shockingly, Mr. Bouchard reaches for your collar and fingers the material. His thumb brushes across your neck when he does so. “Your shirt,” he says, by way of explanation. You finally notice that he is holding a to-go cup of coffee in his other hand, and some of what spilled has pooled around the top of the lid. “I’ve gotten some drink on you. Come with me,” he says, his tone brooking no argument, “I have a private bathroom off my office.”

The walk in silence is not uncomfortable, even if you find that Mr. Bouchard is the type to stay just a bit too close by your side. Even when you subtly inch toward the wall, it seems he gravitates right back into your personal space. You know it should bother you, but a shiver of pleasure runs through you every time his arm bumps against yours.

When you reach Mr. Bouchard’s office, he holds the door for you, and your heart races when he almost shuts the door behind you, leaving only a crack. He makes a sweeping gesture at the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat, I insist.”

You sink into the plush forest green cushion, thinking about how much more comfortable this is than the metal chairs in the training conference room. He walks behind his desk, and you are stunned to see a vintage serving cart holding a decanter of amber liquid. Drinking at work? _What decade is this man from?,_ you wonder. He bends over, you can’t help but enjoy the view (the way his waist is nipped in, hips begging to be gripped, must be illegal), and he straightens up holding a steel ice bucket and a couple small white hand towels.

Mr. Bouchard sets the bucket and towels on the desk and easily palms two diamond-cut rocks glasses in one hand, splashing a double shot from the decanter in each. He sets one on your side of the desk, and hands the other to you.

“Mr. Bouchard,” you say, as he slinks between you and the desk to take the bucket into the bathroom, “you don’t have to do that …”

“Please,” he says softly, “call me Elias.”

Well, if that doesn’t just make you melt into a puddle. Elias stands at the tap and pours some cold water in the bucket. “Mr.— Elias,” you say, as you clutch your drink nervously, “I can’t drink this here …”

“Why’s that?” he calls over the tap, amused. “Do you think you’ll get in trouble with the boss?”

You can’t argue with that logic. You take a tentative sip. Whiskey, or Scotch, of course.

Elias returns, and kneels on the floor in front of you, setting the bucket by his knee. Then he starts to—oh, good lord, he’s rolling up his shirtsleeves, and you can just picture yourself mouthing up and down the smooth trail of his forearm to his wrist. He dips one of the towels in the water and wrings it out, and you watch the drops that trace his fingers. Before your brain catches up to what is happening, Elias hooks his hand under your collar, and you jerk forward slightly as he dabs at the stain on your white shirt. He is being quite generous with his ministrations; you know you’re going to be absolutely soaked.

“So tell me,” he says, his voice incongruously polished and professional for a man who is between your legs anointing your chest until you are dripping, “how goes the onboarding process for you? Looking forward to working at my Institute?”

 _Yes, god, Elias, yes,_ you think to that second question, and his lidded eyes alight as though he heard you. “It’s good,” you breathe, “glad the paperwork’s done. Just trainings all week now.”

“Is that so,” Elias says playfully, like he alone is in on a joke. You can smell him now: ginger, and suede, and something else you smell in cologne sometimes—is that vetiver? Lemongrass?

You would love the opportunity to inhale him until you can figure it out.

“And what training have I stolen you from today?” he asks, his eyes dancing with humor.

“Uh.” You’ve been flushed this whole time, and you feel the burn deepening now. “Sexual harassment,” you say. You go to take a quick swig from your drink.

Elias lays the wet cloth over the bucket. He raises your chin with his forefinger so you have to look him deeply in the eye, and you’re pinned by his gaze, like you’re some rare moth that’s been preserved and framed. His other hand comes to tip the bottom of your glass back, forcing you to take more down your throat.

“Interesting,” he purrs. “Why don’t you show me what you’ve learned?”

**Author's Note:**

> xx [siliconealien](http://siliconealien.tumblr.com)


End file.
